The Pirate Kings

by Alex Scarrow

  By eight thirty in the evening the carriage arrived at Sir Thomas Modyford’s plantation, the winding dirt track becoming a long, straight, wide approach between orchards of mango and orange trees. At the end it became a grit driveway that circled round a small cultured rose garden before a grand-looking one-storey building. There were other carriages parked, their horses untethered and gathered beneath a sheltered porch where their heads dipped into long troughs of water.

  The carriage door was opened for them by a black slave wearing a white powdered wig, breeches, white stockings and a short waistcoat.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Liam. The slave started at that and stared wide-eyed at him for just a moment, then immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.

  One of Modyford’s servants came out to greet them with a crisp bow and ushered them inside through the residence’s portico entrance into a hall with a cool stone-tiled floor. He excused himself to announce their arrival to Sir Thomas. As they waited, Liam savoured a refreshing breeze on his face, wafting down from above; he looked up at a large swaying reed fan, like a ship’s rudder on its side. It was being tugged to and fro from a length of rope by a slave sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  They could hear raised voices of conversation, the convivial sound of a party already in progress. Rashim looked edgily at Liam. ‘I have to admit I feel a little bit out of my depth here.’

  Liam nodded. He felt the same way, as if they were pretenders, fakers, about to be unmasked before a mocking audience.

  ‘Uh … so, Liam, any pointers on how a person is meant to behave at a seventeenth-century drinks party?’

  ‘What, you think I’ve been to a thing like this before?’

  Rashim looked at him. ‘You are the experienced time traveller, are you not?’

  ‘Not that experienced.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ve just got to brass it out, act the part of swashbuckling privateers. But be polite.’ He nudged Rashim gently. ‘And do not get drunk.’ Rashim looked waxy and pale. ‘You’re not going to hurl again, are you?’

  He shook his head and smothered a queasy belch. ‘I don’t even want to look at another drink,’ he muttered miserably. ‘Unless it’s a dehydrogenase booster.’

  The servant returned and beckoned them to follow him into the main reception room. ‘His Excellency will receive you now.’

  They followed him through wide-open mahogany double doors into a large room with long walls of mint-green painted plaster, punctuated with oil paintings, portraits of – Liam presumed – members of Modyford’s family. Candles, dozens of them, glowed from chandeliers and a sideboard along one wall, bathing the room in a rich amber glow. Tall window shutters were wide open allowing a modest breeze into the stifling room and a view of the gentle slopes of Sir Thomas’s plantation.

  The room was filled with guests: elegantly dressed ladies wearing tight-laced corsets and flowing skirts of satin brocade. Liam imagined that if Maddy was standing right beside him, she’d be geeking out at the opulence. But there were more gentlemen than ladies, most of them sporting luxuriant shoulder-length periwigs. Every now and then Liam could see fingers discreetly reaching up and scratching beneath them. He stifled a nervous giggle; a strong gust of wind through this room and it would be wall-to-wall shaved heads – a gathering of Shaolin monks.

  Sir Thomas Modyford broke off conversation with a couple of fabulously fat and insanely rich-looking fellow plantation owners and made his way over.

  ‘Ah! If it isn’t the man himself, the talk of Port Royal, Captain Anwar!’ He stuck a hand out and Rashim grasped it limply.

  ‘Well, yes … and my co-captain here.’

  Modyford nodded a little dismissively. ‘Oh yes, something like O’Connor, isn’t it?’

  Liam nodded. ‘Aye, sir, exactly that.’

  Modyford’s attention shifted straight back to Rashim. ‘Now I do hear that your privateering expedition was a splendid success.’ His voice lowered somewhat. ‘I heard it said you brought in a jolly large haul?’

  Rashim nodded.

  ‘Well, later we can discuss the tax you owe on that, but … for now, tell me all about it.’

  ‘We were rather lucky, Your Excellency.’

  Modyford wafted the formal title out of the way like an intruder. ‘Just address me as Sir Thomas, my good man. And, after a few drinks alone with fellows I find agreeable, I’ll even dispense with the “Sir”.’ He nodded at Rashim to carry on.

  ‘Well, we surprised a convoy of ships that were in the process of evacuating goods and gold from Cuba. Apparently the Spanish caught wind of the preparations going on for Henry Morgan’s raid.’

  ‘Captain Morgan is an arrogant fool. Too big for his boots. And perhaps too ambitious and slow off the mark. A fleet of ten ships and five hundred men is what I heard he took to Cuba. And what have they managed with that? A paltry haul. His investors have lost fortunes on that mess of an enterprise!

  ‘But you –’ he smiled admiringly – ‘you, sir, with just one ship and your small crew of, I imagine, wholly ferocious and bloodthirsty devils, the lot of them, battled – what was it? – a dozen Spanish galleons and forced the damned lot of them to surrender?’ Modyford slapped Rashim’s shoulder and laughed. ‘It seems you are quite the miracle worker, sir!’

  Liam wondered whether to step in, correct the governor and tell him that it was six ships and only one of them a warship, but Rashim replied first. ‘It was a very fierce struggle, Sir Thomas,’ he said with a shrug of false modesty, ‘but, you see, I had the wind behind me and the element of surprise.’

  ‘Now, Anwar, I think we both know there was a little more to this victory than that. Hmm?’ Modyford’s jovial manner changed suddenly. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and studied Rashim intently, as if by glare alone he was going to ferret out any untruths from this story.

  ‘Oh yes, Captain Anwar,’ he said drily, ‘I’m quite certain you’re not being entirely honest with me, are you? Perhaps there was a little something else tilting the fight in your favour?’

  Rashim’s mouth flapped open and closed uselessly. He glanced at Liam for a prompt, for something helpful to say. But Liam could do little better. The cannonball design was the one thing they both agreed needed to be kept entirely to themselves.

  ‘Uh … I … not honest, Sir Thomas? Er … what exactly are you …?’

  Modyford’s face suddenly creased. He laughed and slapped Rashim’s shoulder roughly. ‘Courage, man! I’m talking about damned balls-to-the-wall courage and fighting spirit, sir! I suspect you bore down on those Spaniards like a bat from the bowels of Hell, like the Devil himself. Scared the wits out of the lot of them!’

  ‘I … ’ Liam nodded almost imperceptibly at Rashim to let Modyford believe that. ‘Well, we did approach the convoy quite quickly, I suppose. Like I said, we had the element of surprise on our side.’

  ‘Too damned modest by half, sir!’ he roared and shook his head. ‘Good Lord! So many of the so-called captains out here on this island are little more than thugs and hooligans elected by their men to command their ships. A rabble of drunkards and thieves with little or no knowledge of naval tactics, navigation or nautical skills. Morgan, for example, all bloody talk. The man has lost me … well, let us just say the fool has lost me a small fortune. But you, Anwar, I suspect you’re the man I should back. A man I can rely on to keep the Spaniards at bay. Keep them steering a wide berth round Port Royal.’

  Modyford shrugged. ‘Even if King Charles does firmly disapprove of me encouraging your kind, it’s reputation, you see. It’s all about reputation. As long as you pirates … my apologies … you privateers are putting the fear of God into the Spanish, then they’ll not have the cojones to invade us. Not while we have the likes of you to call on to defend Port Royal!’

  ‘Uh … yes, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Anyway. Good God, enough of wretched matters political. Enjoy yourself! This party is in your honour! You are the talk of Port Royal, man! The all-conquering hero!’ He clapped h
is hands together and bellowed across the heads of the other guests. ‘Somebody get this thirsty fellow a drink!’ He looked back at Rashim. ‘You really do look as pale and colourless as a freshwater eel. A drink, sir, that’s exactly what you need!’

  Rashim smiled queasily. ‘Marvellous. Yes. A drink. Thank you.’

  Chapter 46

  2025, New York

  Sal felt the gentle touch of firm ground beneath her feet and immediately opened her eyes.

  Times Square once more. It seemed her whole life now revolved around this urban acre. She’d seen this distinct convergence of streets in so many guises: an irradiated ruin, a monotone tribute to a fascist dictator, an expanse of jungle populated by reptilian hominids, a sleepy coastal town with a distinctly French ambience, a mature cedarwood forest inhabited by a tribe of native Americans.

  Now it was a more familiar Times Square. But not the one she’d got to know so very well back in 2001. This was how she imagined – no, remembered – it was. Definitely a memory. Father had taken her to New York in 2025 on a business trip. And this was what she remembered. A city still unaware that it was dying.

  There was the cinema. There the ticker-tape display. There the Times Square ticket booth, the Paramount Building. And the streets were busy enough – although not quite so busy as 2001, but still lively. She saw Greyhound buses, the new hybrid-version yellow cabs, trucks and coaches, and electro-bikes. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. She remembered those things seemed to fill every street in every city. They certainly had in Mumbai.

  She looked up and noticed that the skyscrapers leaning over her on all sides each sported a number of wind turbines: the traditional windmill and the newer egg-whisk designs, and endless arrays of glinting solar panels.

  Yes, of course. The first of the major peak oil shocks had already begun to occur by now. Sal remembered her history. Saudi Arabia’s mammoth oil reserves had suddenly gone dry in ’23. The world’s single largest producer of oil had, without warning, disconnected itself from the international supply loop intending to preserve what little it had left for itself. Within weeks of that day, gasoline, diesel – petrol as the British insisted on calling it – became a tightly rationed commodity. As expensive per pint as the most expensive of liquors. And the cars sitting outside everyone’s home became, almost overnight, a worthless one and a half tons of scrap metal waiting to be collected by someone. Sal looked around. It was all so familiar.

  She watched the intersection lights beside her change and a cloud of electro-bikes jangled bells at each other as they jostled for space. They swarmed past her like a cloud of insects, each one with a small electrical engine that hummed like an angry bumble-bee in a jam jar.

  ‘I’ve definitely been here before,’ she whispered.

  No, not you, a pernicious, spiteful voice in her head reminded her. The real Saleena Vikram has. Not you, though.

  She ignored her own malicious inner voice because she had better things to think about. Something to do. Somewhere she needed to go to. She looked at her watch. It was just gone 11:30 in the morning. Which meant she had half an hour to make her way up to Central Park.

  That’s where Father, Papaji, had taken her. To see the enormous skyfreighter come in over the top and collect another load of scrap metal from the park.

  ‘They come in every day at midday, Saleena. It is an amazing sight, I am told. I will take you to see it,’ Father had said to her.

  She dodged her way across the road, weaving through the jangling, buzzing electro-bikes, and headed north up 7th Avenue to Central Park. She could feel goosebumps on her arms, a shiver of excitement blowing down her neck to her spine.

  My father … and me. They’re somewhere up there. She looked up 7th Avenue at the press of pedestrians. Somewhere up ahead of me.

  Chapter 47

  1667, Port Royal, Jamaica

  ‘A second ship?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Rashim. ‘Sir Thomas said he’d provide it for us if we wanted. And you would be the captain of it, Liam. How do you like the sound of that? Captain O’Connor?’

  ‘Aren’t you already a Captain O’Connor?’ piped up Will.

  ‘Co-captain, Will,’ Liam corrected him then looked at Rashim. ‘And, as it happens, more like a first mate really.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Rashim. ‘You and I, we’re partners, Liam. Even, equal partners in crime.’

  ‘Some more equal than others,’ Liam muttered then wandered over to the table where Will was perched on a stool practising writing letters of the alphabet with a quill, pot of ink and a scroll of parchment rolled out before him. Liam studied the boy’s copied letters and nodded. ‘Good, very good, lad. Much better. Now … once again.’

  As Will scribbled and scratched away, Liam gazed absently out of the small windows of their rooms in the King’s Head tavern down on to Queen Street, bustling with traders and merchants. ‘Why do we need a second ship anyway? We did well enough with just the one last time.’

  ‘If we’d had a second ship, we could have caught all of that convoy, instead of allowing two of them to slip away.’

  Rashim had returned from chasing the carracks to the captured galleon six hours later at twilight. He’d been excited at how much they’d managed to plunder, but gnashing his teeth at what more they might have had. Although they’d all hove to – and been waiting patiently to be plundered – Rashim and his men had taken so long to get round to them that two of the ships had got tired of waiting and sneaked off with the dimming light.

  ‘If we’d had two ships, we could have herded them like sheepdogs all the way back to Port Royal.’

  ‘Two ships, Rashim, will mean taking on more crew, more supplies for us to buy in, more paperwork.’

  ‘And so …?’

  ‘So, it’s more work, so it is … for me mostly. Plus –’ he crossed the creaking wooden floor towards Rashim’s bed – ‘this isn’t about you and me building up some pirate business empire. It’s about somehow getting the name Pandora into a future history textbook or Wikipedia page!’

  Rashim glanced pointedly at young Will. The boy was concentrating on his handwriting and, more than likely if he had heard, or was listening, that outburst wasn’t going to make much sense to him. All the same, Rashim lowered his voice. ‘Wikipedia page? Liam, your friends are now based in 1889. If we cause a time ripple that generates a Wikipedia page in the future, they are never going to know about it.’

  ‘Bad example. I meant more like … I don’t know, an article in a newspaper or perhaps a famous book, like Treasure Island, that uses the name Pandora in it.’

  ‘Liam, like it or not, I do believe we’re stuck here. I’ve been thinking about this. Maybe … possibly … just possibly, there’s a chance that Maddy and Sal will pick up on something we do back here. In 2001 and with the Internet, they would have stood a much better chance. But in 1889? They only have the basic database of history they took with them. Since there’s no displacement protection field, yes, that database is susceptible to changing if a time wave ripples through … but it would only change the data that was taken along. Not add articles to the data. So, if her database doesn’t contain a big fat article on pirating in the Caribbean in the 1600s, we’re … rather stuck here.’

  Rashim settled back on his bed. ‘So, why not make the most of it? We could end up being extremely wealthy men, Liam. Plantation owners, governors ourselves one day!’ He leaned up on one elbow. ‘You and I have such privileged knowledge in our heads, the broad course that history will take, knowledge of technology ahead of this time.’ Rashim grinned. ‘Look … I studied most of a chemistry degree in my teens. I could formulate a gunpowder that produces greater explosive energy and virtually no smoke. Think how that one thing could change the fate of wars, of nations? Perhaps that’s the next innovation I’ll work on to give our ships the advantage!

  ‘Liam … ’ Rashim sat up. ‘I almost … almost don’t want to be rescued. This –’ he gestured at the room, the small lead-lin
ed windows and the sharp sunlight streaming in through them – ‘this is everything! This is a world I could be happy in. You and I are going to become extremely wealthy, powerful gentlemen. We could end up owning Jamaica. Think of that! Owning a whole country!’

  Liam turned away to look back at Will scratching away on the parchment, listening to the voices carrying up from the busy narrow street below. There was much in what Rashim was saying that struck a chord with him. God, yes! To be a king, a pirate king. To be free from worrying about timelines, cause and effect, contamination. To simply kick free and be an adventurer.

  Jay-zus, what’s not to like about that?

  ‘And two ships, Liam? Guess what that means.’

  He turned round. ‘What?’

  ‘Technically speaking, that’s a fleet. People would have to call me Admiral Anwar.’ Rashim giggled at that.

  Just then they heard a sharp knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ called out Liam.

  ‘Tom, sir!’

  ‘Enter!’ bellowed Rashim.

  Old Tom’s face appeared round the edge of the door. ‘Uh, sirs, beggin’ yer pardon, but we got somethin’ downstairs that needs yer comin’ down and seein’ to.’

  Chapter 48

  1667, Port Royal, Jamaica

  Liam and Rashim emerged from the tight stairwell into the tavern’s drinking hall to find the owner looking less than pleased with them.

  ‘I won’t have it, gentlemen. I won’t have you turning my premises into a gathering place for their sort!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  The tavern owner led them towards a back room, little more than a sweat box of timbers built on to the rear of the tavern. It was where his patrons were encouraged to take their painted ladies – or outside. He pulled open an oak door. ‘You tell them this isn’t no safe haven for damned Maroons.’